


Truth Be Told, I’m Just Lying To You

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s so much better than all of them—</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Be Told, I’m Just Lying To You

Title: Truth Be Told, I’m Just Lying To You  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Nothing specific, but through S2 would be safe.  
Summary: She’s so much better than all of them—  
A/N: Title and all lyrics from Schuyler Fisk’s “Lying To You.”

 

  
_“I don’t know you, I don’t love you, I don’t think about you  
I’m not breaking, I’m not torn up, I don’t think about you.  
You don’t look good in my bed, I’ll take back every word I said;  
You don’t know me like you think you do.”_

She doesn’t know why everyone’s always getting so worked up over people. They’re just people. Just stupid, blind, careless creatures struggling through life like everyone else. Some happen to suck more than others. It’s just the law of the jungle. There’s no need to get caught up.

Its been happening since middle school to all of these people in her life—the weak, the helpless, the completely shocking (Noah Puckerman _was_ her best friend, until he went all depressing super-loser for Quinn Fabray’s massive pregnant ass)—and it has never made sense. Santana has never had this problem, this stupid, lame, pathetic issue of _needing_ people.

It just isn’t her. __

_“I’m not nervous, I’m not worried, I don’t think about you  
I’m not lonely, I don’t miss you, I don’t think about you.  
You’re not ever on my mind, I don’t need you in my life, no;  
I don’t need you like you think I do.”_

She watches people fall apart with absolutely stunning misery for the sake of so-called feelings. She watches them berate and manipulate and damage. She watches Quinn cheat on Finn while stringing Puck along. She sees the way Finn treats Rachel, who so desperately wants to please anyone who will love her. She sits back and rolls her eyes through the Artie/Tina fiasco, and the Jesse St. James thing, and that whole weird bit with Kurt and the eyebrow kid from Dalton. She sees anger, and arguments, and arrogance. She sees, but she couldn’t possibly give a damn.

Because Santana? She does the sex thing. She does it as often, and with as many people, as she possibly can. Why not? It’s fun. It’s a good, healthy workout, and sometimes she gets free food out of the deal. No strings attached, no broken hearts or lonely nights, and it is exactly how she likes it.

She’s not so weak as to get all stomach-fluttery when she sees a certain smile, or weak in the knees when baby blues flash her way. That’s kid stuff, loser stuff, the stuff idiots write songs about right before their wives leave them and they lose their entire estate to audits and drug-happy one night stands.

She’s so much better than that. __

_“I’m just afraid of what you might say_ _  
Of what you’re thinking now.  
And I’m in pieces, and you’re still speechless  
So where does that leave us now?”_

And it’s not like she _couldn’t_ have feelings, if she wanted to. It’s not like she’s some weird, fucked up robot. She’s got all the working parts. It’s just that there is something so pedestrian and simple about “love”, something she’s not even sure she believes in, and so what if other people tell her she’s missing out? There’s nothing good about the love thing. All it means is feeling lost and kind of trembly and having to look away in the showers. All there is to love is knowing that you can’t say anything about it—if it really is _real_ , that is, which…who says?—to that person.

Because who knows how they would take it? Even if it _seems_ okay, at first—even if there was, say, some kissing and some groping and maybe a little of what some people might call sex here and there—who’s to say it would last? People are fickle, mean, evil creatures. They’re dumb, and they’re fleeting, and there is no sense of forever to a single one of them.

People break up. They get divorced. They spend the better part of a decade cheating on their spouses—on their whole _family_ , really—and the other person just turns a blind eye, pretends not to smell the strange new perfume or take notice of the longer and longer nights spent “at the office.” People are stupid. Love is stupid. And yeah, okay, maybe there are some heavy looks sent across the classroom from time to time, and maybe a person’s hand might brush the other’s, and maybe there are some fingers that happen to link up. But none of that has to _mean_ a damn thing.

She knows how this works better than anybody else in this damn town. It’s just not worth it.

_“I don’t know you, I don’t love you, I don’t think about you  
I’m not breaking, I’m not torn up, I don’t think about you.”_

Whatever. She doesn’t have to do this. She’s stronger than them, smarter, infinitely better looking. She knows she could make it through a few more months, another year, and then be out the door. She could walk away and never, ever look back.

Because this? This is dumb. It’s worthless. It will hurt and scar and burn in all the wrong places. She doesn’t have to do this. She could totally walk away right now, and no one would be the wiser. Nothing would change. It would be completely and absolutely fine.

_“Truth be told:  
I’m just lying to you.”_

The thing is, though…

There’s just this feeling she’s been getting lately. Like _things_ —things she doesn’t want to think about, things she has spent years smashing down over and over again with a huge internal hammer—are starting to rise a little too high for comfort. Like she can’t keep tamping it down for much longer, because those _things_ are starting to reach her chin. Her mouth. Her nose. Her heart.

Those things are kind of starting to drown her, and yeah, she’s too good for this. Way too good. She doesn’t have to be like Fabray, or Hudson, or Puckerman, or Berry. She’s better than all of them.

But the thing is, even though she doesn’t _have_ to be this way? Even though she doesn’t _have_ to let it all in, let it consume her and burn her up until there is nothing left but the ashes of what was once strength?

The thing is, she kind of…almost _wants_ to.

Because, hey, it’s not like it’s _necessary_. People are just people. No big deal.

But Brittany is kind of different. Brittany is kind of her own category altogether.

And Brittany has this way of smiling at her…this particular bat of her eyelashes, this very specific churn of her hips…Brittany has this way of pressing her mouth against all the places Santana prefers no one else to recognize and making them her own. Owning them, almost.

Brittany has this way, and it makes her different—makes _them_ different. So, no, it isn’t weak. It isn’t the same thing as Berry or Chang or Fabray or Puckerman. Because those? Are just stupid, senseless, pathetic people.

Brittany is something better.

_“I’ve been crying for you  
And I can’t keep lying to you.”_


End file.
